


Ritual

by lusilly



Series: Earth-28 [6]
Category: Batman (Comics), Batman and Robin (Comics)
Genre: Family, Gen, Mental Health Issues, Obsessive-Compulsive Disorder, Service Dogs
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-27
Updated: 2018-09-27
Packaged: 2019-07-18 06:53:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,169
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16113134
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lusilly/pseuds/lusilly
Summary: A few incidences at home while Damian is trying to settle in with the Titans and with his recent diagnosis.





	Ritual

**Author's Note:**

> Note that this is in the Earth-28 universe so Damian's on the Teen Titans with Lian Harper, Chris Kent, Irey West, and Milagro Reyes. Damian's OCD comes up several times in E28 so check out the series to see more about it.

           “I don’t want him to sleep in my room,” insisted Damian, sleeves rolled up, sudsing up Titus’s coat with dog shampoo. “He sheds everywhere.”

           “I didn’t say he had to,” replied Bruce calmly. “He can stay downstairs. I’m sure it’s better for his back not to be going up and down them every day, in any case.”

           Unhappily, Damian scrubbed a little harder. “You think I’m not taking care of him.”

           “You’re taking care of him perfectly well, Damian.”

           “I just don’t want him in my room!”

           “That’s fine,” repeated Bruce patiently. They’d been going in circles about this for ten minutes now: they’d been going in circles about everything for the past week, which Bruce had categorically decided was a result of Damian’s OCD acting up.

           It probably had something to do with the tumultuous time he seemed to be having with the Titans, where he struggled to fit in and relate to his peers. Bruce couldn’t blame him – he knew how difficult it could be from firsthand experience, and was well aware that Damian had more reasons than most to feel alienated from a bunch of normal kids with normal parents.

           “He’ll sleep downstairs by the fireplace where he always has,” Bruce said, seated by the elaborate bathtub with his son, giving the Great Dane a bath. “He knows not to go upstairs, so you don’t have to worry about him getting into your room.”

           Miserably, Damian scrubbed for a moment longer, then dropped his hands into the soapy bathwater. When he took them out, he pressed the heels of his palms into his eyes, wetting his face. Bruce let out a silent sigh and said, “Damian.”

           He knew better than to reach out and try to pry Damian’s hands away from his face. When he was upset Damian became immensely sensitive to touch, and Bruce knew from experience that trying to handle him would only make it worse. So he didn’t move to take hold of Damian, only picked up one of the plastic cups they’d brought in with them and poured water over Titus’s side, washing away the soap.

           After a moment, Damian lowered his hands. Without saying anything, Bruce set down the cup and reached for a towel, holding it out.

           Damian took it, drying his hands and his face. While Bruce continued to wash Titus, Damian clutched the towel in his left hand, shaking out his right as if trying to rid himself of a cramp. He kept shaking it. Out of the corner of his eye Bruce could see the look on his face, not stormy so much as merely unhappy, upset at himself.

           Titus leaned over the edge of the bathtub, giving a gentle whine. A few drops of water dripped from his snout onto Damian’s lap. Finally, Damian stopped shaking his hand and reached out, scratching Titus behind the ears.

           Quietly, Bruce asked, “Are you all right?”

           “Yes,” said Damian, as if by rote.

           “Do you want me to finish this up?”

           Damian didn’t answer right away. Then: “He’s my dog.”

           “I know.”

           “I can take care of him.”

           “I know you can. You do an excellent job. You take him for runs in the morning, you make sure he’s fed.”

           His hands still on Titus’s face, Damian dropped his head towards the side of the bathtub, pressing his forehead against the cool porcelain.

           Bruce pulled the plug on the drain; one more rinse and Titus was done. “Do you need to take a break?”

           “No,” said Damian, without lifting his head.

           “Do you want me to call Doctor Thompkins?”

           Still resting his face on the side of the bathtub, he turned his head to look up at his father. “Why?” he asked.

           “Because,” answered Bruce pointedly, “you sound like you might like to talk to someone.”

           With a sudden burst of anger, Damian asked venomously, “I’m talking to you, aren’t I?”

           That wasn’t what Bruce meant, and Damian knew it. So he did not deign it with a response. Instead he merely turned the tap on and filled the plastic cup with water, running it over Titus’s back one more time. Damian just watched.

           When it was done, Titus barked happily as Bruce and Damian both helped him out of the bathtub, and they both got wet when he shook off the excess water. Towel in hand, Damian said, “Stay. Sit.” Titus did so, and Damian went to work, drying his coat. “Up,” said Damian, and Titus obeyed as Damian finished drying him off.

           While Damian was busy with this, Bruce cleaned the bathtub. Behind him he heard Damian finish, and he heard Damian ask the dog quietly, “That feels better, doesn’t it? Shake. Good boy.”

           Once he was cleaned and dried, Titus bounded around the house, panting excitedly when he found Alfred in the drawing room and whining at the French doors which led from the kitchen to the garden. “ _Tt_ ,” snapped Damian when Titus whined, and he flicked at his snout with his finger. “Don’t whine at me.”

           “It seems to me,” said Alfred wisely, having followed Damian into the kitchen to begin dinner, “that he would like to go for a jaunt in the garden, Master Damian.”

           “I just washed him,” said Damian, looking up with genuine distress. “He’s going to get dirty again.”

           “Well: it is what comes most naturally to dogs.”

           No longer whining, Titus licked happily at Damian’s hand. He pulled away sharply, massaging his palm with his thumb. Then he knelt down abruptly, taking Titus’s face in his hands, pressing their noses together. Alfred busied himself with taking ingredients out of the fridge.

           Then, just as abruptly, Damian let go of Titus. Crossing paths with Alfred, he went to the kitchen sink, washing his hands. Alfred carefully did not watch him as he did this, merely turned the oven on and found a cutting board. Once he was done, Damian dried his hands on a dishtowel and took a seat at the counter across from Alfred. “What are you making?”

           “Roast lamb with rosemary potatoes,” answered Alfred. “I think I shall stuff the zucchini blossoms from the garden for you, they’re quite perfect.”

           “I liked the sauce you made last week,” said Damian, absently wringing his hands on the counter before him. “The one with cinnamon.”

           “Ah, the tagine.”

           Damian nodded anxiously. Titus settled down before the French doors, his head resting on his paws. “You put too much lemon in it, though.”

           “I shall try to make it more to your liking next time,” said Alfred dryly. “Or perhaps you could try your hand at making it for yourself?”

           On the counter, Damian’s hands kept moving, repetitive and steady. “Maybe,” he said. That meant no.

           Accustomed by now to Damian’s presence during meal-making, Alfred paid him no mind as he worked. By now, Damian had his issues with food mostly under control, reassured by the ability to watch it being made and making an effort to listen to the rational part of his mind which told him he needed to eat to sustain himself. Of course, there was also the ultimatum set by his father, stay healthy or no patrol, which maybe motivated him more than anything.

           Slicing potatoes, Alfred asked, “How do things go with the Titans?”

           Damian kept his eyes focused on the knife in Alfred’s hands. “They’re fine.”

           “Are you all getting along?”

           “Of course we’re getting along,” said Damian derisively. “If we weren’t getting along we wouldn’t be a team to begin with.”

           Alfred kept slicing. Damian kept wringing his hands. “My mistake.”

           There was a short silence. Then Damian said: “Lian’s angry with me.”

           “Oh? And is this out of the ordinary for young Miss Harper? I had thought the two of you frequently found yourselves at loggerheads.”

           “I’m Robin,” he said. “I’m meant to be the leader.”

           “A case of injured pride, hm? Well, I suggest you let the lady take the lead, if she so desires.”

           “She doesn’t,” said Damian bluntly. “She doesn’t want to be the leader, she said I’m Robin so it’s meant to be me.”

           Ah. With a shrug, Alfred offered wisely, “There is no need to cling to tradition for tradition’s sake. Perhaps Christopher would like to take the lead.”

           “I doubt it.”

           “Well,” said Alfred mildly, “shared leadership is an excellent opportunity for every one of your members to find their voice and pursue their growth. A very mature approach.”

           Finally, Damian quit the handwringing, leaning over the counter to grimace at the potatoes. “Did you put white pepper in that?” he asked.

           “No,” said Alfred.

           “I don’t like white pepper,” said Damian.

           “I’m well aware,” Alfred replied. “Hence, why I did not use it.”

           Damian pointed to a pepper grinder on the edge of the counter. “Why is it out?”

           “Because,” said Alfred smoothly, “I took several herbs and spices out of the cabinet, even though I did not use them all. I shall replace them now.”

           He did so. Damian leaned on his elbows, watching him put them away.

           For a while longer, neither of them said anything. By the doors, Titus fell asleep. In his slumber he let out small whining noises, evidence of some unhappy dream.

           Abruptly, Damian said, “I’m sorry.”

           Alfred glanced back at him. He made a face.

           “Sorry,” he said again, shaking his head. “I’m being a pest.”

           “You have nothing to apologize for,” said Alfred mildly, eyeing him. “A very responsible thing, to check that I had not soiled your dinner with white pepper. Heaven forbid.”

           Miserably, he said, “I’m not supposed to check.”

           “And next time I shall be more careful about where I place the pepper when I am not using it, so that you feel less compelled to do so.”

           Not that it would help. He’d just find something else.

           The fog had not lifted by the next day. Damian sat tucked in one of the window nooks, sketchbook on his lap and open to a blank page, his forehead leaned against the glass. He hadn’t moved for some time. Titus dozed on the floor beside him.

           Damian looked up before Bruce had even properly entered the room, always hyperaware, anticipating, a second ahead. In his hands Bruce held a paperback book. “Are you reading?” he asked.

           “No,” said Damian. He held up his sketchbook, even though he had nothing to show for it.

           Gesturing at an armchair, Bruce asked, “May I sit?”

           “It’s your house,” said Damian.

           At this, Titus seemed to notice Bruce’s presence: he got up and trotted over to the armchair. Bruce scratched his face appreciatively. “If you’d prefer your privacy-”

           Damian let out a loud, frustrated sigh. “I’d  _prefer_  it if you quit treating me with kid gloves.”

           “Well,” said Bruce patiently. “You’re fourteen, Damian. By any rational measure, you are a kid.”

           Lifting his hand to run his thumb aggressively across his eyebrow, Damian looked like he wanted to reply but he didn’t. Bruce waited a moment longer for a response, then took a seat in the armchair.

           Damian let out a whistle through his teeth. “Titus, come.”

           Titus padded back over to Damian, who reached down to stroke his thumb delicately down the middle of Titus’s face, from brow to nose.

           There was a long silence. Bruce opened his book, but he did not read, merely staring vacantly at the words, hanging on to his son’s every small movement, waiting.

           It came, eventually. Damian’s voice sounded uncommonly small.

           “I don’t know what’s happening,” he said.

           Bruce glanced up at him, but said nothing.

           There was a screwed-up look on Damian’s face, as if struggling under the weight of some great invisible burden. He kept stroking Titus’s face, brow to nose.

           “I don’t feel right,” he said.

           “I know,” said Bruce. “It’s all right.”

           “It’s not all right.”

           “It is.”

           His face tightened even more, if that was possible. “I have things under control.”

           “Yes. You did very well on patrol last night.”

           Damian said nothing. He slid off his spot before the window, leaning his back against the wall, hanging his arms around Titus’s neck. The dog bowed under the weight, then laid down, resting his head on Damian’s leg.

           “So,” continued Damian, his voice low, his eyes on Titus, “I don’t know why I don’t feel right.”

           Bruce had the bizarre, fatherly urge to get up and cross the room and sit down next to his son, run his fingers through his hair, tell him it’d be alright.

           But that was not the kind of relationship they had. Instead, he asked, “Would you like me to read something to you?”

           “No,” said Damian, his hands cupping Titus’s ears.

           For a moment, Bruce watched him.

           “You just need to catch your breath,” he said, finally. “No need to push yourself.”

           They sat there together, Bruce in the armchair pretending to read his book, and Damian on the floor, carefully dragging a finger down Titus’s face, over and over and over again.


End file.
